


A Fairy Tale, They Say

by eurydice72



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Post-Episode: s07e22 Chosen, Reunions, anonymous gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28343619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurydice72/pseuds/eurydice72
Summary: Buffy receives anonymous gifts that lead to questions she doesn't have answers to.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 54





	1. Wish Come True

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Seasonal Spuffy - Fall 2020

Part 1: Wish Come True

The first one arrives in a box that looks like it was excavated from Sunnydale itself. Dust clings to the label, and three of the corners are smashed in, but the tape is surprisingly intact, and Buffy needs a blade to break the seal.

Or, in this case, the dagger of Dehema, since it was just sitting there on Giles's desk.

“What is it?” Dawn asks from the couch. “And why didn't you tell me you were ordering something? I would've looked to see if there was something I wanted, too.”

“I don't know,” Buffy replies. “And I didn't.” Not for the lack of desire. She’d kill for a decent pair of new boots, but the lack of fundage puts a serious crimp in random shopping. Money is still tight while Giles works out how to stretch what little Council money is left to cover a busload of displaced new Slayers as well as all the people Buffy cares about.

The ghost of a burning hand squeezes around her heart.

Well. Not all.

Dawn sets aside her book and rises as Buffy opens the box. A floral scent wafts from the interior, but her gaze locks on the fat envelope that rests on the dried rose petals. Though the envelope is sealed shut, the flap is crooked, one end exposed to allow peeks of what it contains.

“Holy crap,” Dawn murmurs, but when she reaches to take it out, Buffy slaps her hand away. She scowls. “What was that for?”

“Because we don't know where it came from.”

“Who cares? There must be a thousand dollars in there.”

Buffy cares, because it feels like it's too good to be true. She leans her head sideways to read the shipping label, but there's no direct return address. Just a Los Angeles postmark and block lettering to send it to Buffy Summers in Cleveland.

“Hang on.” She levels a warning finger at Dawn as she reaches for her phone. “And don't touch.”

Angel picks up on the second ring. “This isn't a great time—”

“Did you send me a box full of money?” she demands.

“Huh? No. Why? Do you need money?”

She gnaws at the inside of her cheek as she debates telling him the truth. Pride eventually wins. “No, we're fine. I just got this really weird package from LA. Who else knows where I am?”

“Only Wesley, just like I promised.”

“Do you think he sent it?”

“That's doubtful. He's been a little preoccupied with the reorganization.”

Right. Wolfram & Hart. Even more reason to be careful what she says to Angel. He might swear he's going to change things, but that doesn't alter the reality of who exactly he's gotten into bed with. At this point, she would've preferred he pick Darla or Drusilla for that particular honor.

With no more questions to ask, she lets him get back to whatever corporate problem has him so distracted. She has no idea who else to call. The last time she checked, her father was traveling for work. Could he have asked his secretary to do this? Buffy dismisses the possibility as soon as she thinks of it. Even if Hank had deigned to give either one of his daughters a second thought, he would've sent a check and made sure they knew it was from him so he could get credit for it.

She opts to try Giles. Because it's addressed specifically to the apartment they share with him, Buffy reasons that if she didn't tell someone where she was, then he is the next best bet.

Giles is a bust.

So are Xander and Willow. But when Buffy asks, Willow is over in a shot to give it a looksie for booby traps.

“I think it's exactly what it appears to be,” Willow announces after almost an hour of magical and scientific testing. The living room now smells like oregano. Buffy's stomach growls. In all her hubbub, she's forgotten to start dinner. “Maybe it's a Sunnydale survivor who wants to say thank you.”

“Without a note?”

“They didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Because packing it in a box of dead rose petals is sure to set me at ease.”

“Can I count it now?” Dawn demands.

With a wave of her hand, Buffy lets her. She wants to like Willow's suggestion, but the fact remains, someone still has to know where she lives in order to send her anything. “Is there a spell that can tell you for sure?” 

Willow shrugs. “I'd need something linking it back to the sender, like fingerprints or hair.” She nods toward Dawn kneeling at the coffee table, counting out the bills into neat piles. “But too many people handle money, and it never gets washed. It's kind of icky when you think about it.”

Buffy does. Then grimaces. Because Willow is right, and she is grasping at straws trying to figure this out.

“Oh, my God.” Dawn's blue eyes are wide when she lifts her gaze to Buffy. “There's over five thousand dollars in here.”

Buffy darts over to crouch at her side. Dawn has divvied the money by denomination. It's not just a bunch of tens. There are ones and fives and twenties, too. A few hundreds filter through the stash, but the preponderance of smaller bills makes it look more like a ransom demand than a gift.

“This isn't money someone pulled from a bank,” Buffy muses.

“Maybe I should test it all again,” Willow says. “Because you’re right. The rose petals are weird.”

Buffy steps back so the duo can work, but her thoughts are awhirl with a new possibility. Or an original one, if she’s being pedantic. She only knows one person who liked to send gifts with flowers. Willow and Dawn know, too, but nobody likes being reminded of the time Angel didn't have his soul, most especially how he staged Ms. Calendar’s death. If Angel wants to lie about sending the money, that's his problem, not hers. He's the one with the guilty conscience, it would seem.

Besides, the timing can’t have been better. Five thousand dollars will go a long way to ease some of the tensions that have been building while they search for solutions on what to do with everyone. It’ll give Buffy some breathing room to deal with her own future for a change. 

A future Spike gave her. The one he sacrificed himself for. 

He’d be annoyed if he knew it was Angel’s money that was going to help her achieve it. But she’d take every last bit of his bad moodiness if it meant he could’ve survived.

For now, she’ll hold her tongue. And honor Spike’s deeds by carving out the best future she can find.

* * *

The second gift shows up on her doorstep while she's out with Faith, trying to behead the demon that's set up shop in a downtown hair salon. It's taken them a week to pinpoint its base, and from the various dyes that now stain Buffy’s favorite top and boots from the explosion when they tried to break into the storage cellar, it's going to take them another week just to figure out how to get past its wards without Willow.

Definitely not the best timing for her to head to South America with Kennedy. But Buffy can’t blame her for wanting to help her girlfriend. 

The FedEx envelope is propped against the apartment door when she comes home, but the sun is too low for her to see the label until she gets inside.

Buffy Summers. From LA. Still no return address.

Her heart skips a beat in anticipation until she tears open the packaging and pulls out a slim book. She's about to set it aside to give to Giles when he returns from London when she sees the engraving on the back cover.

It's their hair salon demon. A quick flick through the pages brings the excitement back to her veins. Angel has come through again. The text is exactly what she and Faith need to take down the demon, once and for all. It’s even in English, like he knows Willow isn’t around to translate it for them.

But when she calls to thank him, he denies sending it. In fact, he sounds annoyed that she's received another “anonymous” present. “What's the exact title of the book?” he demands.

She tells him, and she can swear she hears him writing it down. “Are you sure it's not from Wesley?” she asks. Because a book on demon history is exactly something a former Watcher would deem important.

“Positive.” Angel pauses. “Look, if you get any more mystery gifts, will you let me know?”

“Why?” Especially if he's so sure Wes isn't responsible?

“In case there's any trouble with them,” comes his smooth answer. Too smooth. And a complete lie. Even Buffy can hear how ridiculous the reason is.

“Sure.” Just as smooth.

Just as much of a lie.

* * *

Gift number three shows up in London. Well, it’s already there when Buffy arrives, anyway. She practically skips through customs, so excited she is to finally be away from Cleveland. Winter in Ohio is awful compared to California. Whoever sold the _Home Alone_ dream of a white Christmas had clearly never actually spent any time in a city after a blizzard. Faith calls her out on her thin blood, but then again, Faith grew up in Boston, which, from the way Faith tells it, makes Cleveland looks like Tahiti.

Faith and Robin can have it. Buffy is more than happy to accept Giles’s invitation to relocate to the UK. Sure, it interrupts Dawn’s education, but Giles has always gone on about how English schools are superior. Now’s his chance to prove it.

Dawn sleeps the whole cab ride to the house, while Giles remains quiet, allowing Buffy the luxury to simply stare out the window. The skies are gray, the people hunched as they scurry down the sidewalks, but she feels a lightness that’s been absent since before Sunnydale fell. London is a fresh start, a respite from responsibility for at least a few weeks. She can spend her days exploring and shopping, then go back to Giles’s new place and play the big sister role instead of the head Slayer. It would’ve been nice to have someone like Willow or Xander at her side to discover what the city has to offer—or Spike, though she can’t admit that aloud for fear of her grief returning—but she’s okay going it alone on the days Dawn doesn’t want to tag along.

This is a step in the direction of her new future. She can do anything she wants. It’s impossible not to be exhilarated by that.

The house is smaller than she expects, but its coziness makes that irrelevant. She hesitates in the foyer, surprised by the pictures lining the walls. There’s the gang eating lunch at Sunnydale High, with Oz sitting on the table and a laughing Willow between his legs, while off to the side, Xander juggles two oranges and an apple. She’s never seen this one before. For a brief moment, she wonders how many other memories Giles has spirited away from her.

Others are more typical. The Magic Box. Training. The first time she made Thanksgiving. She bites back her smile when her gaze settles on a tied-up Spike, looking thoroughly pissed off. Not one of his happier days, that’s for sure.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Giles says from the doorway. “But if it’s too painful—”

“No.” She stops him before he can try apologizing. “It’s good.” She means it, too.

“Your rooms are at the top of the stairs,” he explains. “Oh, and Buffy, you had a letter arrive already. I’ve put it on your nightstand.”

She frowns in confusion, but follows Dawn upstairs. Giles has given her the first room—a practical matter, most likely; no worrying about waking Dawn if she comes and go at late hours—and there, like he said, rests a plain white envelope.

From Los Angeles.

It contains three folded sheets of paper and isn’t a letter at all. It’s a typed list with a title in all caps at the top of the first page.

THINGS TO DO AND SEE IN LONDON YOU WON’T FIND IN ANY BOOK

Each item is unique. More than one makes her brows go up. But she doesn’t care so much about the list as she does about who could’ve sent it.

Definitely not Angel. If ever she needed confirmation the gifts weren’t from him, it’s the suggestion that she visit someplace called God’s Own Junkyard. And three different pubs. It’s funny to think she’d ever believed Angel was behind it all.

There’s only one person she would expect to direct her toward alcohol, and her heart thumps in sudden anticipation of the possibility. It can’t be, of course. He’s dead. Buried under Sunnydale. His memory might burn bright— _ouch, poor choice of words, even if they are true_ —but Spike is gone.

But so was Angel, once upon a time.

When Dawn pokes her head in and says Giles wants them downstairs, Buffy tucks the list back into the envelope and hides it under her pillow. She doesn’t mention it, either. Giving voice to her suspicions will only garner lectures—that’s she’s obviously tired from the flight, that she shouldn’t let her imagination run wild. Dawn will express sympathy, say she understands what it’s like to wish he was back but all the while thinking Buffy is crazy to entertain the notion.

She gets it. She’d probably think the same thing in Dawn’s position. Which is why mum’s the word. It’s not like she can do anything about it right away, anyway. California is eight hours behind her now.

They spend the afternoon putting up the Christmas decorations Giles has been lazy about. There’s eggnog—light on the egg, heavy on the nog—and a tinsel fight and laughter so natural she’d forgotten what it sounds like. When she yawns after dinner, it’s genuine, so nobody gives her a hard time when she says she’s going to call it an early night. She can still hear the murmur of their voices downstairs when she shuts the door and pulls out her phone.

This time, she doesn’t call Angel’s direct line. When Wesley picks up, he even asks why.

“Because he won’t give me the answers I need,” she says.

“For what?”

Briefly, she describes the packages she received. “Has he mentioned them to you?”

Wesley hesitates. “He did ask me about the book you received.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps you should ask him that.”

“I’m asking you.”

“He thought…he wondered if it had belonged to Wolfram & Hart.”

“And did it?”

“It’s impossible to be certain—”

“Wes.”

He sighs. “Yes, I believe it did.”

That raises more questions than provides answers, but at least she knows she’s aiming in the right direction now. “Can you get a message to whoever sent it?”

“I never said—”

“Tell him he should’ve delivered them in person.” She can’t let Wesley stop her, because she doesn’t want to hear she’s wrong. “I don’t know why he didn’t, if he thinks I’d be mad, or disappointed, but I’m not. I couldn’t be. He gave me…everything. And I don’t mean all the gifts from the past few months. But he has to know that. He _has_ to. If nothing else, make sure he gets that part, okay?”

Another sigh, barely there, and she braces for the argument she is sure to come. “I’ll do what I can,” he says instead, and her eyelashes flutter shut. She hadn’t realized just how afraid she was about his response until just that second, but he’s not saying she’s crazy or diverting her to Angel or any of a hundred other ways he could’ve brushed off her theory. Then, he adds, “Everyone here worries about you, you know,” and the tension returns.

“That’s been Angel’s modus operandi from the day I met him.”

“From my experience, he has good reason to.”

“Except I can take care of myself,” she replies. “I don’t need heroes trying to ride in and save me.”

“Isn’t that what your anonymous gifts did?”

“No.” The correction is simple. “They gave me the means to save myself. That’s the difference.”

That has always been the difference. Though it took a long time for her to figure that out.

She thanks Wes for listening and hangs up before he can try and bring Angel up again. Whether it did any good or not remains to be seen, but at least she knows she tried.

* * *

The call comes on Christmas Eve.

Dawn and Giles are in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner, while Buffy sets the table. Tomorrow, it’s her turn to cook. That’s the deal she struck. For this particular holiday, she wants to be the one to take care of them.

Whatever they’re cooking smells delicious, though. Her stomach grumbles with each fresh aroma. Her only request was that they didn’t do turkey. That’s her centerpiece for Christmas Day, especially since Thanksgiving in Cleveland got ruined by a cult collecting new baby Slayers. It’ll be a lot of food for just the three of them, but the way she figures it, nobody will have to worry about cooking again until New Year’s. More time for post-holiday sales shopping for her, more reading time for Giles, more…something for Dawn. She’s not entirely sure what Dawn’s been doing with all her free time lately. Every time Buffy has asked her if she wants to go out, Dawn begs off and locks herself in her room.

Maybe it’s about a boy. A British boy. Yeah, that makes the most sense.

Buffy smiles. She hopes for Dawn’s sake that he’s nice.

Her phone rings as Dawn carries in a platter of roasted potatoes and carrots. She’s tempted to ignore it—it’s a holiday, after all—but habit and her undying sense of responsibility compel her to at least check to see who it’s from.

Angel.

She sighs.

“Something wrong?” Dawn asks, a slight frown pulling her brows together.

“There better not be,” Buffy mutters. She waves a hand at the table as she heads for the other room. “Don’t wait for me. This won’t be long.”

She answers as she shuts the sitting room door behind her. “I would’ve thought part of reforming an evil law firm would be giving people the day before Christmas off,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

“I did.”

For a moment, her cheeks flame in embarrassment. “Oh. My bad. I just assumed—” It’s not worth finishing that sentence. “But hey, if you’re calling to wish me a Merry Christmas, you’ve got your time differences messed up. It’s still Christmas Eve here.”

“I know.” Angel pauses. “I’m actually in London right now.”

The world freezes around her. “What? How? Why?”

“Is there a particular order you’d like those answers?”

She wants them all, now, but Angel should know that without being glib. “Since when does Southwest offer frequent flyer miles for vampires? You didn’t pack yourself into a suitcase to get here, did you?”

Angel chuckles. “No, I was quite comfortable. Our plane is specially equipped to fly just about anyone.”

_Our_ plane. Wolfram & Hart’s. Her blood cools even more. “So this is for work.”

“Partially. And partially…I need to see you.”

She is shaking her head before he even finishes the sentence. “No. Tonight’s for me, Dawn, and Giles. You can’t just fall out of the sky and expect me to come running because you say so.”

“I’m not…look, I know this is short notice, but I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.”

“End of the world important?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then call me after Christmas. I have a holiday to spend with my family.”

She hangs up. It doesn’t feel as good as she thought it would. But the days when Angel would call and she would drop everything to go see him are long gone.

Her sadness over it must be written all over her face when she goes back to the dining room because Dawn immediately frowns and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Her gaze sweeps over the fully laden table, the steaming platters, the centerpiece she and Dawn made one afternoon when the drizzle was too dreary to venture into. It lights on the slight tilt of Giles’s head, the quirk of his mouth as he waits for her response, then returns to Dawn and the full-blown worry shining in her blue eyes.

The mood evaporates. “Nothing,” Buffy says with a smile. “Let’s eat.”

* * *

She’s not surprised when the doorbell rings after dinner. When she leaps to her feet, however, Giles motions for her to sit back down.

“I’ll take care of this,” he says.

She lets him. Though she didn’t say a word at dinner about who had been on the phone, he’s astute enough to know what this night means to her. How can she move on when her past keeps trying to pull her back? And Angel _is_ the past, she knows that now. She can’t condone what he’s doing in LA, nor can she absolve him from keeping what she still believes to be the truth from her. There’s always the chance that she’s wrong, that she misinterpreted everything, but wouldn’t Wesley have corrected her if that was the case?

Except she never uttered Spike’s name. She’d only assumed he knew that’s who she was talking about. It was altogether possible they’d been talking about two different people.

Her stomach churns. What if she’s wrong? She doesn’t know if she can handle grieving for Spike all over again.

The murmur of voices drift from the hall, but the familiar glide of the door shutting never comes. Instead, footfalls whisper over the carpet, and Giles steps into the front room’s entrance.

“Buffy?” He meets her gaze, but his is inscrutable. “You have a guest.”

Fury washes through her flesh. Angel never did do as she asked, too stuck in the pit of his own authority to dare question whether he might be wrong about something. Sometimes, she wonders how she put up with it for so long, but right now, she just wants to tear him a new one for going against her wishes. On Christmas Eve, of all days.

Giles edges aside to allow her room to march past, but Buffy hesitates at the sight of the house’s empty threshold. The door has been left slightly ajar, with no sign of her “guest” visible through the scant inches. Even Giles, for as much as he’s seemed to have forgiven Angel over the years, doesn’t trust him enough to invite him in.

Grabbing her coat from the rack, Buffy yanks open the door the rest of the way, ready to give Angel a piece of her mind. The blast of frigid air is not the only thing that stops her in her tracks. The front steps are empty.

Slowly, she shrugs on her jacket while her gaze darts around, trying to find her elusive guest. When she spots a long, dark car with tinted windows idling farther down the road, her eyes narrow. She wouldn’t put it past Wolfram & Hart to have wards galore on Angel’s transportation, but nothing is going to save him from her wrath now.

“H’lo, Buffy.”

Echoes of nights spent tucked inside the solace of unfaltering arms send shivers down her spine. She turns toward the voice, each moment another memory refusing to be forgotten, and spots him leaning against a lamp post, his hands shoved deep inside his duster’s pockets. While light falls from above, the cant of his head casts long shadows over his features, hiding everything but the sculpture of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth.

She can’t breathe. Except she must, because he’s right there, within touching distance if only her feet could move. All she can do is stare at him and murmur words she never truly thought she’d ever say again.

“Hello, Spike.”

To be concluded in Part 2: Hearts Will Be Glowing


	2. Hearts Will Be Glowing

Part 2: Hearts Will Be Glowing

The first time Spike asks about Buffy, Angel doesn’t even blink when he says, “Europe, last I heard from her.”

For a brief moment, Spike contemplates calling him out on the lie, but he’s not sure what the point would be. Angel’s groupies flank him like good little tin soldiers—and what bloody hell has he dropped into that Harmony is right there with them? —while the tosser himself wears his _I’m not in the mood_ face. It doesn’t matter that Spike has more than a century’s worth of knowledge regarding Angel’s tells or knows better than anyone that Buffy would never drag her kid sister around the world without the threat of an apocalypse when she’s been working so hard to provide a stable home for the Niblet. The lie doesn’t matter, either.

Buffy does.

So he lets it go, ignoring all the questions—where his body is, why he’s back at all—to concentrate on the only one he truly cares about.

Where’s Buffy?

Locating her isn’t as hard as he thinks it will be, mostly because Harmony is as dim as ever. He finds the address scribbled on the back of an old _Cosmo_ , and his heart leaps when he sees Buffy is still in the States. Granted, Ohio might as well be on the moon for as easily as he can get to it at the moment, but there’s no ocean separating them, nothing but road that he can easily travel once he can get beyond the city’s limits. He has time to plan how he’ll get there, too, time to suss out what to say without sounding like a right git.

But that’s where his initial joy fades. What _can_ he say? Buffy thinks he’s dead. Angel has made that perfectly clear. Spike’s sacrifice saved the Hellmouth, and everyone has moved on. She might still be putting in the good fight, but the Slayerettes are there to give her a well-deserved break if she wants it.

Does she want it? Does she want to put Sunnydale behind her?

His initial poking around suggests yes. Angel won’t talk about Buffy, but once he’s corporeal again, Spike befriends one of the secretaries whose sister does freelance soothsaying for Wolfram & Hart. All it takes is a spot of flirting and an endless flow of fried plantains, and the girl is more than happy to share what she can see.

Like the fact that the Summers women aren’t alone, that the whole gang has settled in Cleveland and Buffy and Dawn share an apartment with Giles. _‘Bout time, Rupert._

Like the fact that Buffy spends most of her time with Dawn and Willow, harkening back to more halcyon days. It doesn’t escape his attention that he hadn’t been around for those.

Like the fact that Faith seems to be carrying the slaying load, while Buffy focuses on researching Midwest colleges.

She can finally go back and show the world she’s better than flipping burgers. All she needs is the dosh to pay for it.

Once the idea hits, he runs with it. Money spills from everyone’s pockets within Wolfram & Hart walls. Nobody misses the five he nicks from petty cash or the tenner he pockets from the pool taken up to buy a retirement gift for an entertainment lawyer Spike is convinced is the one responsible for unleashing Michael Bolton into the popular consciousness. Soon enough, he’s amassed quite the haul, enough to at least give Buffy the safety net she needs to take the scholarly leap.

The flower petals are a whim, though leaving the package unsigned is not. Buffy has never been good at accepting his aid outside of the fight. He doesn’t want to give her an excuse to turn this down, too.

He’s quite chuffed about the whole thing until he overhears Angel and the Watcher chatting about Buffy and her anonymous benefactor.

“But why would she think you sent her money?” Wesley asks.

“Because I’m the only one who knows where she is.”

“Well, technically, that isn’t true.”

“Are you saying you _did_ send it to her?”

“No, but Harmony has access to all of your correspondence, doesn’t she?”

“She hates Buffy.”

“That doesn’t preclude her having Buffy’s address.”

“But why—”

The moment Angel stops, Spike knows he’s sussed it out. He’s halfway to the lift when Angel’s door flies open.

“Spike!”

He stops, hooks his thumb in his belt loop, and cocks a brow. “You bellowed?”

Gold flashes in Angel’s eyes. “Get in here.”

Over Angel’s shoulder, he spies Wesley, hovering in the background. “You fancy a threeway today instead? And here I thought the Watcher didn’t care to share.”

“That’s not—” Angel growls and steps toward Spike, only to be stopped by Wesley’s hand on his shoulder. It’s almost remarkable how tame Angel can get when Wes intervenes. More than once, Spike has wondered if he’s got some magic he keeps under wraps to explain how he does it. Neat trick, for those who can master it. Spike certainly never didn’t. If anything, his is the sort to whip Angel into a frenzy, infinitely more entertaining though ultimately a frustration since it gets them absolutely nowhere. “I need to talk to you,” Angel tries again, though the growl is still there in the back of his throat.

The lift slides open, and Gunn exits. “Actually, I’m on the way out,” Spike replies, backing up. “Raincheck, yeah?”

He darts onto the lift and jabs the button to close the doors before Wesley’s magic wears off and Angel resumes his charge. Might be time for a bit of a break from the grand ol’ grump, give him the chance to forget about his suspicions. Spike has little doubt Angel will keep them to himself. The last thing Angel wants is for Buffy to know Spike is back. All Spike has to do is wait him out. Surely, enough evil will pass over his threshold to help him move on from brooding over Spike’s little monetary intervention.

And maybe it’ll give Spike the time he needs to decide whether or not there’s a place for him in Buffy’s new world order.

* * *

To say he’s a little brassed off when he ships the book about the Vorit demon to Buffy is an understatement. His decision to stay away from her had been based on his assumption she was off to uni again. That’s what the money had been for, anyway. Instead, his favorite soothsayer had upended that particular barrel to announce Buffy was back on the slaying path and currently struggling to vanquish a difficult foe.

Not only that, she only had Faith to help.

What other choice does he have but to sneak into the law firm’s archives and steal the book she needs that will solve the Vorit problem without getting her killed in the process? He even pays extra to get it there sooner.

But with the book gone, the question of whether he should follow it rears its head again. He wants to go. He misses her, every single day. His dreams are full of her, of starlight gleaming in her eyes as she takes down another vamp, of power firming her shoulders as she rises victorious from a difficult fight, of the smiles and frowns and laughter and shouts that painted the hours he was blessed to have with her. Turns out, being on the other side of the country doesn’t make the memories fade. How can they? He relives them over and over again, even when it will hurt less if he lets them go.

Then, there’s the wanting.

He wakes up hard, whether the dreams are quiet or loud. There’s not a lot to be done about it, though the offers to help are abundant, but he’s not ready to bury himself in an unknown body, not sure if he’ll be ready for a long, long time. His soul still belongs to Buffy, and to offer anything resembling intimacy to someone else feels like cheating. He has no illusions Buffy feels the same. Even discounting the fact that she thinks he’s dead, he knows his place. One astonishing night before opening the Hellmouth is hardly going to change the awful history they’d shared before the soul trials.

Maybe it’s that knowledge that begins to sway him to stay in Los Angeles. Handling his libido is hardly a new problem. Missing her is his own issue. While Buffy might have grieved for a while, she also knows how to move on, and Spike’s not sure he wants to taint the high note they ended on. It would be a first for him—to have someone look back and smile at the memories of him. Is his selfishness about wanting to see her worth more than that?

He’s still debating the question when Angel storms into his flat and shoves him into the wall.

“I should’ve staked you the second you showed up in my office,” Angel snarls.

Spike pushes back, breaking the contact, and makes a show of nonchalance by shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “Except I didn’t have a body then, you nit. Can’t stake what you can’t touch.”

“Nothing stopping me now.”

When Angel tries grabbing him again, Spike barely ducks in time. He darts out of the way, putting the couch between them. “What’s got your knickers in such a twist today? I haven’t darkened your doorstep for yonks.”

“But you’ve still been at the office.” Angel jabs a finger in his direction. “I know you stole that book from the archive to send to Buffy.”

Ah. Now it all makes sense. Little else infuriates Angel more than the combination of Buffy and Spike in the same sentence.

“So?” Spike challenges. “It’s not like she didn’t need it.”

“And you know that how?”

“Better question is, why didn’t you?”

That stops Angel for a brief moment, long enough for Spike to barrel forward.

“You’ve been playing at bein’ Buffy’s guard dog for months now, but when she _actually_ needs a spot of help, who’s the one who came through for her? Me. Not you. All that big talk, and the best you’ve managed for Buffy is to not get in her way again. Great job of that, by the way.”

“She’s fine.”

“Did you even know Red and Rupert had buggered off to leave Buffy on her own to deal with a Vorit demon?” Spike demands. “You know as well as I do that if you let them finish their nesting, you might as well say sayonara to any chance you have at not turning into baby Vorit food.”

Angel’s mouth pinches at the corners. Spike’s struck a nerve. “I’m not Buffy’s babysitter.”

“Except you claim to be protecting her by lying to me about where she is. Or barging in where you’re not wanted to tell me to stay away. So which is it? ‘Cause you can’t have it both ways.”

For a long moment, they simply stare each other down. Spike’s right about this. He knows he is. Angel would see that if he wasn’t so damn jealous that he hadn’t been able to help Buffy first.

Spike breaks the silence first. “How’d you find out about the book?”

Another moment of Angel’s heavy regard, and then… “Buffy called me.”

Because who else from this godforsaken city would want to help her? It stings, but Spike can’t deny the assumption isn’t fair. “I s’pose you took credit for it, too.”

“No.” Angel glances away before admitting, “She caught me off-guard.”

It’s a small concession, this pettiness Angel always tries to hide from others, but Spike will take it. It means Buffy still doesn’t know the truth, and he has more time to make the decision about going out there.

Turning on his heel, he heads toward his tiny kitchen. “Fancy a drink? I could definitely use one.”

Behind him, Angel sighs. “Sure.”

Uneasy détente seems to be their default setting these days. Pro or con for sticking around?

Spike doesn’t know the answer to that question, either.

* * *

Discovering Buffy is moving to London to live with Giles snaps Spike’s resolve to keep his distance. He’s been good about no more gifts, keeping busy as best he can in order not to think about it. But the news makes him wish he was there to show her all the best spots. Rupert will be rubbish at it. He’ll probably insist on the bloody tourist traps or a cruise along the Thames. It’s up to Spike to set her straight on what’s worth doing in her newly acquired home.

He even types this one up himself, sneaking onto Harmony’s computer one night when Angel is out of town. The hardest part is dropping it into the post instead of delivering it in person like he aches to do.

He does his best to forget about it until the Watcher tracks him down one day.

“I’m supposed to deliver a message to you,” Wesley says. His features are inscrutable, his pulse slow and even. “About that book you borrowed from the archive a couple of months ago.”

Spike rolls his eyes. “Thought Angel finally let that go.”

“The message isn’t from Angel.”

The world tunnels around him as Wesley’s meaning sinks in. Only one other person knows about the book. He doesn’t want to hope, but yet…he does.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Apparently, there’s a bit of confusion about why you failed to convey it personally. Its recipient said there aren’t any hurt feelings if that’s what you were worried about. Everything you gave…you have to believe that they surmount any other obstacles you might have perceived kept you away.”

Spike doesn’t miss the fact that Wes is studiously avoiding saying Buffy’s name. The walls have ears, and he’s opting for discretion. Why, Spike has no idea. Wesley is one of Angel’s staunchest supporters. It might be a trick of some sort, but Spike can’t find the angle. And if it’s not a trick, the message has to be from Buffy.

He has to be sure, though. “And what did Angel have to say about that?”

“Nothing.” Wesley’s voice softens. “I was requested to keep this private. I made certain to honor that.”

Spike blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. The tears hover behind his eyes, just the same.

Buffy knows.

Buffy wants to see him.

That’s all Spike needs.

That’s all he’s ever needed.

“Thanks, mate,” he manages to say. “Appreciate it.”

Wesley nods. “What are you going to do?”

For the first time in days, Spike grins. “What do you think? I’ve got to see a girl.”

* * *

Operation: Get the Hell out of LA doesn’t get off the ground until the day before Christmas. Literally.

Somehow, Angel finds out about Spike’s plan before he can even get out of the building. Two of Wolfram & Hart’s beefiest security guards haul him up to Angel’s office where he has to listen to the wanker rant for over three hours about all the reasons he shouldn’t go to London. Every time he tries to leave, the door slams in his face, courtesy of a little spell Angel has had waiting in the wings for just this moment. Not even Wesley’s calm voice on the other side is enough to talk Angel down.

It takes an emergency from Fred to interrupt the tirade. Spike’s not convinced Wesley didn’t put Fred up to it, just to get Angel to stop.

Spike stays away from the office as he makes plans. He can get across the country, no problem. It’s the ocean that’s the issue. A plane will be fastest, but stowing away isn’t as easy as it used to be with all the added security they have these days. A boat won’t have the guards, but that trip takes a week. And now that he’s made up his mind to do this, Spike wants to get there yesterday.

He settles for leaving on a direct flight from LA. It’ll land him in London while the sun’s shining, but it’s England in December. It can’t be any worse than running around Sunnydale under a bloody blanket.

The last thing he expects is for Angel’s goons to pick up him at LAX.

And he’s right back in that damn office, exchanging glares with an equally frustrated Angel.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Angel says, arms folded over his chest. “I will let you fly to London on Wolfram & Hart’s private jet if you allow me to talk to Buffy first.”

Spike’s eyes narrow. “Nothin’ you say will make a difference. She’s already seen the worst of me, and she still wants me there.”

“She only thinks she wants you there.”

“And you think you’re goin’ to change her mind?” Has Angel always been this daft when it comes to Buffy? “It’s no wonder she kicked you to the curb.”

“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

For a second, he debates trying to walk away again. He doesn’t need this nonsense. Then, reason takes over. It doesn’t matter if Angel talks to Buffy. All Spike needs to do is get to London. And if he can get there without any of the fuss, he’ll have that much more energy to face Buffy and Dawn after he arrives.

“Fine. I’ll take it.”

Turns out to be the best deal he’s ever made. Because he’s sitting there, finishing off a pint in a posh leather seat, when Buffy hangs up on Angel. Even better, she tells him to bugger off until after the holiday. Spike can’t help but grin when he says, “Looks like we’re doin’ this my way, after all.”

* * *

For all his bravado, his stomach is in knots as he waits by the lamp post. He rolls his neck, jumps up and down once or twice to work out some other kinks, and shoves his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking. It started when Rupert agreed to fetch her, and Spike’s afraid it won’t stop even after she emerges. He’s waited for this moment for what feels like forever, and yet, it’s all come to a head too quickly.

Then she steps out of the house, and time freezes.

She’s as radiant as ever. Practically vibrating with fury when she spots Angel’s car parked farther down the road. There’s so much life beating inside her skin, Spike wonders how he thought he could’ve stayed away. It draws him closer, the moth to the flame, and though he is ready to die all over again just to be in her proximity, he stops to lean against the post.

“H’lo, Buffy.”

Her turn to face him is slow, as inexorable as the seconds that have passed. He waits for the anger to be unleashed, bracing for the brunt, but her eyes widen, her jaw softens, and she utters the next without an ounce of venom.

“Hello, Spike.”

Hello. Not _Where have you been?_ Not _What do you want?_ Hello.

A beginning, not an end.

He doesn’t move. He needs the strength of the lamp post more than he realized. “Got your message.”

Buffy edges forward a step. “I got your gifts.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “That last’s more of an itinerary than anything else.”

“Still a gift.” And she’s still approaching. Taking her time with it but steadily filling the space in front of him until she’s all he can see.

Hasn’t that been their story from the start?

“Are you why Angel called earlier?” she asks.

“Yeah. Part of the trade in bringing me here.”

“So why’s he sticking around?”

The query comes without a glance toward the car. Spike thrills that she can’t look away, either. 

“Glutton for punishment, I reckon.”

She laughs, that little half-snort she gives when she finds something funny but doesn’t think she should appreciate it. God, but he’s missed that sound.

“You’re really here.” All the distance between them is now gone, taken away by time, by effort, by her quiet, deliberate pace. She lifts her hand, then hesitates, as if she needs permission to go any farther.

“I didn’t expect to be,” Spike murmurs.

“I know,” she replies. 

It breaks her stasis, draws her forward to finish her fingers’ path. She touches his jaw, climbs upward to his temple, grazes along his brow to trace down along his nose. Fingertips come to rest on Spike’s parted lips for the scantest of seconds, leaving his mouth burning when they skim down, down, and rest over his unbeating heart. There, they stay, as does her gaze, lost in memories he wishes she didn’t have to live through.

The next is a whisper. “Did it hurt?”

They both know what she’s referring to. There’s no point in lying. She would see right through him. “Yeah. But it would’ve hurt worse if it hadn’t helped you.”

“I never got to say thanks for that.”

“And don’t you be thinking you have to now.” When he grasps her wrist, the echo of her heart thrums through their skin to calm his own fears. He has the strength to reach up with his free hand and touch her chin, coaxing her attention up again. Her eyes glow under the streetlight, luminous and full. Dealing with all of the anxiety and indecision of the last six months was worth it to drown in her aspect here, under a London moon. “It’s all done, and I wouldn’t change a thing. Always promised to have your back, didn’t I?”

Her smile is a sonnet, winding through his soul. “Even when I didn’t know it was you.”

“But you figured it out.”

“Eventually. All of the pubs on your list kind of gave it away.” She cocks her head. “Do I want to know how you managed to send me exactly what I needed every time? Because long distance lurking is quite the feat.”

He shrugs. “Just a friend I asked to look in on you, once in a while.”

“It better not be Faith.”

Now, he laughs. Something else he hadn’t realized he’d missed—that jealous streak she’d done everything to hide those last couple months before Sunnydale fell. “Nobody for you to fuss over.”

Her lashes duck, and her fingers start playing along his shirt. Her thoughts have started to stray, but he doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“What happens now?” The warmth of her breath as it carries her words does little to stave the chill that creeps into his veins. “Are you working with Angel? Is that why everything came from LA?”

“You remember he runs an evil law firm, yeah?”

“But that book—”

“I nicked it.”

“Wesley found you pretty easily.”

“He’s a resourceful sort.”

“And Angel flew you here himself.”

Spike sighs. “He kept getting in my way. This was easier.” Grasping her by the shoulders, he pushes her back enough to force her to look at him again. “Except for the odd job, no, I’m not working for Angel. Give me a little credit. He hired Harmony, for bloody sake.”

Her mouth twitches. “And the building is still standing?”

“Barely.”

“So I’ll ask again. What happens now?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flicker of the curtains in the front room as someone peers out. “Well, that’s up to you.”

“How?”

“I’m here, with you, because I’ve finally sussed out I can’t be anyplace else. Tried it. Didn’t take. But you, you get the choice of how much of me you actually need. I know my coming back wasn’t what you planned. And I know you’re trying to get on with your life. I won’t get in the way of it. But whatever you want from me, you’ve got it. Patrolling. Keeping my ear to the ground for you. Even research if you can convince Rupert to let me anywhere near his books.”

The glow in her eyes is back. “And what if I need you to wear a big, shiny bauble again?”

He answers without batting an eyelash. “I’ll dust a thousand times over if it means you get to live, Buffy.”

She surprises him with the slide of her arms around his waist, a tightening around his ribs as she presses her cheek to his chest. Right where her hand had been before. “I just want you here,” she whispers. “I’ve missed you.”

His throat is too thick to form words, so he returns the embrace and presses a kiss to the top of her head. The curtain falls, granting them their privacy.

“Did you want to come in?” Buffy says, her voice muffled against his shirt.

“Always.”

She finally peels away, but catches his hand to entwine their fingers. They take two steps before she jerks her chin toward the idling car. “Do you have to get anything before Angel takes the hint and leaves us alone?”

Spike shakes his head. “Everything I need is right here.”


End file.
